


Tenderness

by InkyKinky



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jane Austen, Alternate Universe - Regency, Anal Sex, Blow Job, Body Worship, Bottom Marco Bott, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, Gentleman, Historical AU, Jane Austen - Freeform, M/M, NSFW, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poetry, Praise Kink, Regency Romance, Rimming, Sex, Smut, Writer!Marco, for smut go second chapter, freckled jesus, jeanmarco, leading to smut, regency england, rich boy!Jean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1879626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkyKinky/pseuds/InkyKinky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Kirschtein is a young gentleman who easily gets bored at parties - even when he's the host himself. His once so loving heart lost its spark, but when the promising author Marco Bodt appears in his life, who knows what the beautiful writer might ignite?<br/>___<br/>(If you want to skip the whole romance part, go to Chapter 2!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Tender Mind

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do Regency sex. I don't know why but I wanted to. So be prepared for odds.
> 
> My [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/inky_thoughts) and [Tumblr](http://inkykinky.tumblr.com) for updates, art, and other fandom stuff.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean discovers that love comes in many shapes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The re-written version is there, so I think it's worth reading again due to major changes.

Jean yawned elegantly, it definitely wasn’t easy to conceal his boredom after watching three sets of dances without being involved. Unfortunately, he happened to be the host of this rather elaborate party, and it was _awful_. Every lady had a partner, and he wasn’t quite sure whether that was to his relief. The candles burned bright, and soon it grew too hot in the ballroom for Jean, so he decided to take a stroll through the park. He came along the card players, Mr Smith and Sir Ackerman being on competition with Lady Ral’s good hand, and Jean passed them without being noticed.

The cold air was reviving, Jean inhaled deeply, expanding his lungs to the maximum, and it almost felt like breaking free if it wasn’t for his tight-fitting waistcoat pressing his torso into shape. He loosened his tie a bit to let the cool spring breeze touch his neck.

“Good evening, Mr Kirschtein,” a friendly voice behind his back tore him out of his thoughts. Jean quickly turned around and stared at the probably most beautiful brown eyes he ever beheld. He barely recognized the gentleman to whom these belonged, sure they had been presented to each other earlier that night and had exchanged some words of politeness, but there was not much more he remembered.

“Mr Bodt, if I recall it correctly?” He felt his face heat up slowly as he bowed lightly to the brunet.

“Yes – yes, you do,” the other man smiled sweetly, bowing likewise. It was a genuine smile, gentle, something Jean valued a lot. At least he suddenly realised how much he actually appreciated it. The gentleman was surely handsome, he had a tall figure, just a bit taller than Jean himself, his dark eyes were adorned with long lashes, and freckled cheeks glowing fairly from the wine and the heat in the ballroom. Jean suddenly pretty much didn’t care any more about the ugliness of freckles in the slightest. They were perfect. Natural. _Genuine_.

“I-I’m sorry, Mr Bodt, can I help you, can I do you a favour?” it suddenly blurred out of his brain, hoping that the gentleman didn’t come to him for a complaint.

“Oh.” The big brown eyes widened in something that almost seemed like a shock. “Oh, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to appear in need of assistance, I didn’t want to bother you in any kind,” Mr Bodt instantly apologized, “I just happened to see you go outside and since we didn’t have the chance to talk, I thought - I mean, you probably want to be alone, maybe Miss Lenz is in need of a partner -”

“No! No, it’s – it’s fine,” Jean had surprised himself with his sudden outburst to keep him with him. There was something about this young man that was absolutely sweet and enchanting, and Jean for once wished to be a female just to have a dance with him.

Mr Bodt smiled at him shyly, then his view wandered around the surroundings.

“A lovely garden you have,” he said, admiration in his voice.

“Sure not as great as Sir Ackerman’s estate,” Jean played down his blooming pride. They were walking slowly, the light from torches flickering in the dark of the night.

“I prefer English gardens, though. I dare say I’ve never seen a more posh or clean garden than Sir Ackerman’s, maybe that’s why I dislike French. Unintentionally patriotic,” Mr Bodt laughed softly next to Jean and looked down a slung path between three willows.

“I haven’t been to the Ackerman’s estate for a while now,” Jean had to admit, “Miss Ackerman’s step brother and I have a rather …tense relationship. Reverent Jaeger can be a quite complicated fellow.”

Jean heard a slight chuckle from Mr Bodt.

“Ah, yes, I happened to hear about that,” the freckled man said, glancing at the blond.

“How did we not meet earlier?” Jean grinned. He felt weirdly comfortable in the other’s presence, at ease and as though his feet didn’t carry any weight.

“I’m not that often in the country. I lived the last few years in Bath and London. Anyway, I heard you haven’t returned from your Grand Tour too long either.”

“Don’t know if you can call two years long or short, I must admit.” Jean’s mouth morphed into a rare smile of his as well, making his stomach feel bubbly. “I suppose I didn’t quite catch your profession, I sure heard the ladies talk about you, but you might as well be a dashingly handsome outlaw.” He knew it was not the truth, it impossibly could be, unless Mr Bodt was a perfectly able actor and fraud.

“Ah, no, I’m afraid I’m _not_ an outlaw. I call myself a poorly gifted writer, that is, and my last poem collection seems to sell quite well.” From the corner of his eye Jean could tell that Mr Bodt was colouring.

“I can’t quite believe that they could be _horrible_ , you should’ve read mine, you’d want to die of shame for ever reading such nonsense. But try to tell that a fool out of love,” he chuckled at the memory, and all the pains of a broken heart seemed rather ridiculous to him now.

“Did the lady of heart show any interest afterwards?” Mr Bodt asked curiously. Jean shrugged.

“Despite my dear mother, not a single soul had ever seen them, thank God. Pray it will stay that way.” He made a face. “It was a silly thing you can't really call poetry, only a naïve youth living in a dream could write that.”

“Is not that a bit harsh on you? A youth probably won't write as well-mannered and pompous as poets writing for the king, but most definitely it has its own delicacy and a sweet kind of thinking that I won't abandon it so easily. You seem to be a sophisticated gentleman, Mr Kirschtein, so please forgive me when I refuse to believe it such a catastrophe.” Mr Bodt's face looked so soft, so kind, and Jean felt a sudden rush of pride in his chest.

“If you insist,” Jean muttered, his lips stretching into a smile again, “but how about you? Any gentle-woman catching your attention so far? I won't be surprised if the ladies were head-over-heals for you, after all.”

“Oh.” A crimson blush crept on Mr Bodt’s freckled cheeks, his dark eyes wide in astonishment. “I – I usually am very blind for - f-for affection aimed at me. Plainly blind! I fancy how sweet it must be to love, to be loved, but love never fell at my door. O-or I never saw it,” the nervous splutter ended with an equally nervous laugh, the brunet rubbing his neck to play it all off.

_Beautiful human being_ , were the only thoughts Jean could muster at that moment.

“God, if you write as beautifully as you are, how could you even slightly doubt your abilities?” Jean suddenly blurred out, blushing furiously, “You speak so gentle, so fair – if I were a woman, I’d long for your hand in marriage, I–”

“I hope you are not always so quick with your declaration of love?” Sure, it was a joke, his cheekiness couldn’t hide in Mr Bodt’s voice, but there was something in his eyes that sent Jean’s mind floating, he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was but it had a silent plea in it.

“Sometimes,” Jean sighed with a grin in his voice. He liked this man, more and more by every minute they were walking next to each other in the soft silence of the night.

“And you are still unmarried,” Mr Bodt noted, and Jean couldn’t make out whether it sounded a bit sad or maybe even happy, neither did he know whether it was good or bad in either case.

“Well, with such a horrible character as me, does it seriously surprise you?”

“You are wealthy, which always gains you a good match. Most men in your position are married. And you don’t seem such a horrible character, seriously!”

“But why aren’t you married? You even look handsome, which not everyone does.”

“My purse. My purse, Mr Kirschtein, is probably my biggest flaw,” the freckled man sighed.

“You could marry rich,” Jean suggested, watching from the corner of his eye how the other worried his lip.

“I couldn’t if I didn’t love. I just couldn’t. I do fancy myself a romantic, so marriage should be built on at least friendship, in my opinion.”

“Quite fashionable, I dare say,” Jean sniggered, but something in the other man’s look made him stop. His eyes had wandered off into the unknown, somewhere far away, maybe a better world.

“A fashion that does not really allow much happiness in life, does it? If I reconsider it, most my poems are of romantic nature, and must be very depressing to read for a life-loving human being.”

“I once read a romantic novel, and so far liked it. Yet I can’t believe that life is so horrible as you seem to depict it.”

“Indeed, but in a dreadful world, who would not dream of leaving all the worries behind?”

“Doesn’t speak much for my way of living, does it?”

Both had to laugh, and they decided to go back inside. Soon either was engaged with a dancing partner, and they didn’t talk much for the rest of the evening.

***

Mr Bodt had came together with Miss Lenz to express their thanks to the host a few days later. They both could barely be stopped from adoring the ball, quite to Jean’s grief, but it was also when he learned the Christian name of his new acquaintance: _Marco_.

Jean didn’t know why it made his heart stutter almost every time Miss Lenz mentioned that name, and he marvelled at the fact that they knew each other so well.

“So, you’ll stay in the country?” Jean asked after a while, shooting short glances at the lively Miss Lenz every now and then to find some kind of confirmation.

“Yes, I am glad Christa let me stay at her house until find something myself. She truly is a saint, even my sister said that,” Marco Bodt laughed.

“Oh, but Ymir has reason to believe that,” Miss Lenz chimed as she heard her name.

“I didn’t know your sister was here, Mr Bodt.” Jean looked at them in confusion.

“She barely goes out; she rather stays at home or takes walks in the woods – just not many too sociable things,” Miss Lenz chattered affectionately, “She stays with me as my chaperone since I have no-one else to keep me company, and I simply adore her.”

“Ymir did move here recently as well, so there wouldn’t have been many occasions to meet her anyway,” Marco added.

“Sometimes I believe she’s the anti-thesis to dear Marco, but I still love her from the core of my heart,” Miss Lenz laughed cheerily and helped herself to some biscuit.

They chatted for quite a while until three o’clock arrived and made the two leave to head back home.

Jean sighed. Maybe it was good that he went for a ride down to the village, to keep his head clear and his mind strolling towards thoughts that were truly important. How was it to be a poet? Wandering to all the beautiful places of the world, getting lost in handsome figures, lovely faces, and pretty eyes; transforming all the love for life and beauty into fair words, and whispering those to his lover, before bedsheets would devour them for the night.

Jean had to concentrate that he wouldn’t constantly wonder who Marco Bodt’s muse would be, even though the freckled youth had claimed to be not able to see love when it was aimed at him. His tasks at hand were partly very ridiculous, but farmers did have their disputes, and calling the police partly would make it even worse.

When he came home, he barely had time to change, but it wasn’t that his mother exactly minded, as long as her boy actually ate something.

 

Some days passed, and Jean barely mustered a thought about the handsome gentleman, until he was invited for dinner at Springer’s, where the young mistress eagerly showed her poetry collection she just had bought a week or so ago.

“Marco Bodt truly is a gifted man,” she exclaimed while serving tea, “and the more I am surprised that he actually came to live here! I am just worried because Mr Lenz won’t allow him at his house much longer, I’m afraid. But he’s such a gentleman, so honourable and friendly, I cannot imagine a reason why he couldn’t stay any longer.” She ranted further on how unfair and cruel it was, and after exchanging a few words with her husband, she gave her precious poetry collection away for Jean to read as soon as he came home.

And that he did.

The poems were sweet, delicate even, and somehow always a certain sadness swelled within the words, as though they were longing for something they didn’t know they were missing. He read them again. And again. And again.

Sometimes, Jean could hear the author himself whispering the words in his melodic voice, and this certain nuance of melancholy never quite left. Marco seemed so forlorn in this world, nothing quite fit, everywhere a tiny piece was missing to make it a home.

Briefly, Jean made a decision. He didn’t even need to ask his mother for permission because he knew she’d say yes without a blink.

And so he wrote a letter.

> _Dear Mr Bodt,_
> 
> _I know we aren’t acquainted for very long, it barely were two weeks since we met for the first time,_ _yet we had such a stimulating conversation the other night that made me feel knowing you for eternity. I don’t want to sound in any way inappropriate, especially in writing you this note instead of calling on you, but when I heard you were looking for some rooms since you intended to stay in the country, and I am an adorer of your works which I have read lately, I hoped to convince you to stay at my house which must be large enough to entertain another gentleman. If you refuse to be moved so easily, I still hope for your company since it was very inspiring. Our doors shall always be open to you._
> 
> _Yours sincerely,  
>  Jean Kirschtein_

 Jean waited with anticipation for the reply, and his mother was truly worried about her son’s constitution for he barely ate for two days. Finally, they received a letter, in which Marco Bodt expressed his gratitude, yet he did not wish to be a burden to the Kirschteins, but hoped to call on them the very next day. Indeed, he kept his promise, and so the gentlemen wandered through the now enlightened park. Jean nearly had forgotten about Marco’s angelic appearance.

“I wanted to thank again for the letter, you are truly kind-hearted and generous, but I think it would be too much to ask for it. As much as I would call it otherwise, we know each other for barely three weeks!”

“If that’s it, I want to assure you that both, my mother and I, would be happy to receive you as our guest. My dear mother loves to spoil people generously, and even I can be tempted to do so,” Jean tried to change his almost-friend’s mind.

“I must feel quite flattered, mustn’t I?” Marco laughed, “Yet it would feel too wrong to live on your costs with nothing in return.”

_Just stay with me, and laugh your angelic laugh, and read to me in your sweet voice_ , was all Jean wanted to say to silence his doubts, but he caught himself.

“As I told before, I have read your works,” Jean began, earning a heavy blush from Marco, “and since you want to offer something in exchange, I wondered whether you could write poems for me?”

“You – you want to write – you want me to write – write poetry? For you?” Marco asked in surprise.

“Yes, indeed. Consider yourself as my protégé, and you can write about whatever your heart desires. Of course I fully understand if you rather chuse not to–“

“Thank you,” Mr Bodt smiled much obliged, “I am sorry, I – I didn’t mean to interrupt you, where are my manners –“

“That’s fine!” Jean cried in excitement, and shot his new protégé a smile, a genuine one. They agreed on Marco (they had allowed themselves to call each other at their Christian names) arriving by the end of the next week. The meanwhile they met on a daily basis to discuss literature, taking a ride, or enjoying nature on their walks through the park.

***

Time flew by oddly fast, soon it was September, and the two gentlemen were sitting down after dinner by a bottle of port, and examined Marco’s latest sonnet a bit closer.

“I like it!” Jean exclaimed and poured himself another glass, “Plainly wonderful!”

“Jean, you always praise me like that, could you just once be a bit more critical?” The other man’s freckled cheeks coloured slightly.

“Just honest,” Jean grinned into his glass and took another gulp. Marco rolled his eyes.

“Jean, I’m serious!”

“Fine, I _loved_ it! And shall I tell you why?” He had shifted forward in his seat, arms prodded on the table, with a challenging glint in his eye that left Marco startled. “You finally came to the conclusion that life isn’t half as bad–”

“I never said that!”

“Your romantic little brain came to love the life – now let’s deduce why that is so…” Jean eyed up the freckled man, drinking in the frightened, big eyes, how his complexion had faltered as though he had seen a ghost. Jean smirked.

“How could you came to believe there might be a life worth living before the grave? How, my dear Marco?” He left Marco even more flustered than before.

“Dear, Jean, ‘tis nothing! Can’t I just … change my opinion like that? You had too much port by now, c’mon, let’s join your dear mother–”

“No, my friend, at first you’ve gotta talk.” His eyes fixated the other with an almost dangerous glint.

“Just – there must be a purpose on why we live – couldn’t stand the misery anymore,” Marco mumbled shyly and almost shrank into his seat, “there has to be something sweet in life, y’know?”

Jean grinned, almost triumphantly.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Marco Bodt is in love!”

Marco’s eyes widened for less than a second, yet Jean noticed that he had caught his friend by surprise.

“Jean, I know I actually don’t have the authority, yet I will take away the bottle if you won’t stop talking such nonsense!” Marco really was trying to get the bottle out of Jean’s grip who just poured himself another glass.

“Admit it, Marco, you’re in love! And if you tell me otherwise, you’re a lying bastard,” Jean giggled as he took a sip from his cup.

“Well, fine, I feel a certain tenderness towards someone. Is that it? Would you leave me alone with it? Could we now concentrate on the failures in this rubbish of lines?” Marco retorted in such a sweet style that it nearly took Jean’s breath. He was an angel even though he was angry. Jean blinked at his friend as the latter took the bottle and helped himself to another cup as well. Jean did not know whether it was because of the rather elaborate dinner, too much alcohol, or what he made his friend just admit, that he felt a sudden sickness spreading in his stomach. Jean leaned forward.

“Who is it?” he almost whispered in a raspy voice. He observed how Marco’s expression cramped a bit as the brunet man put down his cup.

“I-I’m not so sure if I really should tell you, Jean,” Marco suddenly spluttered nervously.

“I am your mentor, and most importantly, your friend, don’t you dare and throw our friendship in the dirt,” Jean replied half serious, half joking. Obviously, Marco didn’t notice the slightly ironic tone laying in his voice.

“I’m – I’m sorry, Jean, seriously, I don’t want to appear disrespectful, honestly, it is the last thing I want to do – yet, _please_ , Jean, you expect something impossible,” Marco was close to tears, probably quite emotional due to the port.

“Marco, how – how could it be impossible? How could I blame you for your love interest? Whether it was the princess of Wales, or a maid from our household, how could I blame you on feeling the sweetest and bitterest of all sensations? Dear friend, who am I to judge?”

“No, Jean, you do not understand!” his friend now cried and stood up. With a quivering voice he added, “Please inform Mrs Kirschtein I don’t feel so well to-night and went to bed early.”

With this, he left the dinner room, and Jean sat there alone. He examined his cup, then the paper with the scribbled poem (as much as Jean thought Marco was a perfect human being, his handwriting was awful and Jean was glad when he would see the poems in a printed book). He read it through again and again, and with every time he wondered even more to whom Marco vowed his unconditional love.

“She must be a lucky girl,” he murmured as he downed his drink, and then left the dining room to join his mother.

 

It followed further love poems, one sweeter than the other, and Jean could not but notice how he truly grew jealous of the woman conquering Marco’s heart with ease. He occupied his thoughts with Marco’s affection a lot. He tried his best to find anything suspicious in the poems themselves, but there was nothing that couldn’t suit at least half of the females he knew. It clearly was frustrating. Especially since Marco entertained such dear thoughts for someone else than him (Jean could be very possessive as a friend), and he tried really hard to find a young woman deserving Marco Bodt, the gentleman in person.

If Jean was honest, he’d admit that it was the young and handsome gentleman, or the thoughts on him, that he couldn’t sleep and laid awake for weeks. He couldn’t tell why exactly he wouldn’t admit someone else, especially a woman, to capture his angel’s heart. He was just determined that it was improper, out of order, that it just was wrong. And until one of the last warm summer nights, he had no idea why.

 

Mrs Kirschtein was to visit her sister for a few weeks, and the two men were all on their own, so they decided to go for a swim before the sun would set. They ran to the nearby lake like two excited schoolboys, undressing before they even remotely reached the shore. They jumped into the barely lukewarm water, panting and laughing and grinning like idiots when they dived back to the surface.

It was maybe then, as Marco breathed so heavily, with his body dripping with water and his eyes gleaming with happiness so close to him, that Jean felt a familiar heat pooling in his lower stomach, and his face was set aflame. Out of a sudden he became awfully aware of _why_ he was fussing over Marco so much, _why_ it was such a big deal for him to whom his heart belonged, and the shock thereof made him dive in the water again to calm down a bit.

It was all so inappropriate, it was a sin, it was _terrible_ , and most of all, Marco was his _friend_. As Jean broke through the surface again, a freckled face with a heart-melting smile greeted him.

“The first who’s at the rock over there has won,” Marco stated, and before Jean could really register what happened, the brunet was already a few strokes ahead, gracefully diving into the lake like a dolphin.

“Hey!” Jean yelled, getting a mouth-full as he jumped into the water again, “Hey!”

But Marco was almost there, and Jean had to grin on how stupid, idiotic, how _adorable_ this was, and choked on the water running into his mouth the meanwhile. He had to catch his breath when he arrived, Marco holding to the rock since the ground was too deep to stand for either of them, grinning triumphantly.

“I won,” he laughed, just as though he was eight, and Jean rolled his eyes, a chuckle escaping his throat.

“You never said what the winner would get.”

“Right.” Marco looked away, still grinning, small dimples adorning his cheeks. “Let me think about something.”

“You could have Sina for our next ride,” Jean proposed. Sina could be stubborn at times but was a wonderful horse, quick and elegant, and Marco had said, he’d love to give her a try once if Jean just let him.

“No. No, that’s too easy, I … how about you tell me a secret? Something you’ve never told anyone.” Head cocked aside, his dark brown eyes fixated Jean, droplets rippling down his face, his back, his muscular arms –

“Jean?”

Jean jerked up.

“I – I actually don’t have any secrets – none that are worth sharing, at least,” he blurred out, face heating up, and he looked away.

“Then maybe I could ask you something, and you have to answer me honestly.”

“But only one question.”

“Only one question, alright,” Marco grinned at him cheekily. Marco always became so daring when he was this playful, and somehow this made Jean’s heart skip a beat. Marco’s eyes looked him up, as though he wanted to detect the most vulnerable spot to hit him with his question. But he still paused for a while. Then,

“Are you in love?”

“I–what? Marco, why do you want to know thi–why is that even remotely interesting?” Jean blushed furiously, evading those dark, questioning eyes at all costs.

“Jean, we agreed on honest answers, right? Or I must assume you are.” The tone in his voice changed to the close, but Jean couldn’t say what it was. He huffed.

“Fine, yes, I am in love. Kind of. Though it might be a more – physical attraction, by chance. Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe I just mistook friendship for love, that might happen, right? I just, uh…” He knew he should stop rambling, or otherwise he’d put himself in even more danger, and it wouldn’t be as playful as Marco thought it’d be.

“Who is it?” Those brown eyes were never truly leaving him.

“Only one question,” Jean replied with certain satisfaction to regain control over the situation, “by the way, you won’t tell me either, so I don’t see any point in this.”

Marco pouted slightly at that and turned around, only to dump deeper into the water while spinning back again.

“What is it?” Jean looked questioning at the other man who turned slightly pink by the time. Jean shot a glance over his shoulder, and then he heard whispering and a breaking branch close to a few bushes at the shore.

Jean slid into the water as well, only their heads were still poking out of the surface, and Marco barely could suppress a giggle.

“I’d never expected that some girls might pry on _me_ ,” he grinned, closing his eyes while pressing his forehead against the rock they were still clinging to. Jean’s face faltered.

“ _Girls?_ ”

“Y-yes?” Marco looked up again, still grinning like it was actually _funny_.

“Since when do – _why_ should girls do this?” At this very moment, an entire world was collapsing in Jean’s mind.

“Don’t be silly, Jean. Men have whores, or drawings, but what do you think does indeed happen so very exciting in their” – he nodded into the bushes’ direction – “lives? They take what they can get, probably, and actually it is a shame that we’re denying them their little pleasure.”

“Marco Bodt, you do not intend to go up there naked, do you?”

“Gosh, Jean, of course not!”

“How do you know about _that_ anyway? You aren’t a girl in disguise, are you?” Jean squinted at his friend.

“No, I’m sorry, I’m probably not, as you might see. But my sister once blurred it out, she probably had had too much wine that night, but actually I promised her not to tell anyone. Oh well…”

“Ymir?” Jean blinked in disbelief. He had met Ymir once or twice when she was dragged along with Miss Lenz’ calls, but she never seemed to have even a slight interest in anything male.

“No, my younger sister, Marie. I think she was fifteen back then, or a bit younger, would suit her though.”

“ _Fifteen?_ ” Jean’s head began spinning. Was something, just anything that he knew about women even slightly true?

“When was the first time for you to fall in love?” Marco countered with a sly glance at his friend.

“Sixteen,” Jean muttered, seemingly displeased by the situation.

“See, not much a difference, is there?”

“B-but they’re _women_ , they are supposed to be innocent, and beautiful, and sweet! That’s nothing but a lie!”

“You know that this isn’t mutually exclusive, Jean, right? Anyway, who’d want such a wife if you were honest?”

Jean stayed silent, sulking a bit at how right Marco actually was, but in the end, did he even want a _woman_ , actually? He believed that his feelings had been honest and genuine in regards to Miss Ackerman, but what had happened to him? His body, mind, his entity was responding to a male, it was familiar, but at the same time so strange to him. Mikasa Ackerman had refused him, and he barely could recall the feelings he had possessed at that time and before, but it must have been similar. It was similar. Except for the emotional closeness he and Marco shared, and which Miss Ackerman had refused, though it didn’t bother him in the end.

He listened to Marco’s soft breathing next to him in the water, and he couldn’t tell a real difference. Marco would refuse him, maybe even more fiercely than Miss Ackerman, he probably would move away, scared of what people might think if anything became public, maybe he’d report him to the police. There was something seriously wrong with Jean, and he didn’t know how he could help it.

Maybe he should have more female company, that he’d refocus on what was good for him, maybe he should pay the brothel in the nearest town a visit as he hadn’t done in a while, just to remind him where a man like him belonged. He had always liked the girls, and the girls had liked him, so why should this change? And yes, Marco was right, those girls were sweet and beautiful, some were even innocent in their own way; it was what he noticed when they met in the hallway for a short chat, or readjusted their stockings, and how some beamed eagerly when a special gentleman was dragged along with them into their room.

He watched how small droplets ran down Marco’s neck. He was so strong, yet at the same time his character made him so delicate, and undeniably beautiful. It was his entity that Jean adored, valued, and definitely loved. Some beauty was unreachable, like Miss Ackerman’s, which requested to be adored from afar, and only a few were chosen to approach further, but Marco’s beauty was there to be touched, to be loved, to be caressed so tenderly, and wasn’t it right for Jean to fulfil this duty, maybe even God-given?

Marco coming up again threw him out of his train of thoughts.

“I think they’re gone by now. Maybe we should head home, it’s getting dark and the water is cold.”

Jean nodded, and they swam back to the shore.

Jean was the first to get out, and he didn’t dare to watch how Marco’s body rose likely to Venus from the lake, completely dripping of water, shining in the warm glow of the setting sun. Jean tried his best not to look at his friend with his wet hair that just looked marvellous, his muscular figure being completely exposed to Jean, but he felt a certain heat pooling in his stomach again.

Before Marco could notice his naked member swelling, Jean grabbed his shirt and tossed it over his still wet body, clinging at his muscles. With wiggling legs he put his stockings and breeches back on, taking his boots, waistcoat and coat in the hand. He turned around, facing an equally dressed Marco, though the latter at least possessed the decency to wear his waistcoat. They just smiled at each other exhaustedly, remaining in a peaceful, comfortable silence. When tiny stones and branches were pricking into their feet, they decided to put on they boots as well, and quickened their pace on their walk home.

 

Jean laid awake for quite a time at that night, questioning what had gone wrong in his life (Should he attend church more often? Was it because his father had died so early, and that his mother had made him more girlish in the end? – He immediately diminished that idea since he usually had seen his father at dinner only, so there wasn’t much a change from that,) and why his heart beat faster whenever he felt Marco’s eyes lingering on him. He wondered what it all was about because he genuinely cared for the freckled man, and it wasn’t desire only. What kind of queer was this?

Yet again he was painfully aware that Marco’s heart belonged to someone else, that Marco was too pure to even be slightly queer, and that he probably, no, most certainly would vanish from Jean’s life within a blink of his eye if he indicated any tender affection towards him that was not based solely on friendship. Yes, he was afraid of what he’d do, what the police would do to him if anything of this became public. Would he be hanged? Would he be stoned, maybe even to death?

_Hermaphrodite_ – was that what he was? This sin, this perversion?

No, that didn’t feel like that. It felt incredibly natural, it felt sweet and light, this – this was how being in love felt.

Loving, genuinely loving couldn’t be a sin. He didn’t want it to be a sin.

He wanted Marco to know, just so badly did he want him to know, but he would refuse, he would hate him, disgusted by the demon within Jean’s heart that tore him apart.

Marco’s beautiful, beautiful heart belonged to someone else. Someone he didn’t want to tell Jean about. There was no use in telling Marco, there was no use but the blunt honesty he usually carried with him all the time, which nagged at him to be himself again. He shouldn’t bottle up his feelings, that never did well on him, and his friend deserved the truth.

_Bel ami._

The words lingered on Jean’s tongue. He loved how it felt on his lips, and how well it suited Marco, how his mother’s native tongue made him feel right in loving him. But was that all they were, friends? Could he – could he show his affection in just a friendly manner?

_Je t’aime, je t’adore, je veux t’embrasser._

_C’est lui, mon amour, c’est lui._

He did not know why his mind switched to French so suddenly, he and his mother hadn’t spoken in it for years, for more than a decade, and still it settled in his head so easily. It was the gentle flow that came with it, how Marco would feel like, how it’d feel to touch him, to kiss him, to be surrounded by him, only him.

Somehow, he did fall asleep that night, and awoke to a stinging headache and a sore throat the next morning. He had caught a cold, and the fever made him feel horribly uncomfortable. When his mother arrived, she found her darling son drifting in and out of delirium, and Mrs Kirschtein thanked God and especially Marco that he did take care of him in her absence.

“He cares so dearly for you, Jean, he barely wants to leave your side!” she said once when she was alone with her boy, “I always have to urge him to eat, he has such a devoted heart for his friends, always forgetting to take care of himself! Were I younger, I must say that I would be lucky to marry such a man!”

Jean wished she would shut up at one point, her praise making his heart ache more than anything, but he was too weak to call her out on her chatter. He was very relieved whenever Marco came back, bringing something to drink.

One evening, Mrs Kirschtein having a small party for her friends, Marco stayed upstairs to entertain Jean.

“You still haven’t told me with whom you’re in love,” Jean reminded his friend. The latter just smiled back.

“This hardly can be a matter now, Jean,” he petted his friend’s sweaty hair, “You could be dying, and all you want to know is whom I fancy!” Marco couldn’t hide his amusement as Jean pouted weakly. “And you haven’t told me either, so I think this is just as it is.”

“I am probably your best friend, and if my time should come already, I at least could wish you luck, wouldn’t I?”

“You should sleep a bit, Jean. There is honestly no use to agonise over this in your constitution.”

“But Marc–”

“Shhht,” Marco tried to shush him.

“But Marco–”

“Just sleep, alright?”

Jean surrendered and nodded tiredly, sinking back into his pillows, and doze off.

***

 “I know you probably won’t hear me, and most certainly if you do, it really doesn’t make any sense in your mind at the moment, but I must let you know that I love – I love you, Jean, I love you! Dear Lord, I love you, Jean Kirschtein and no one ever must know.” Jean felt soft lips pressing down on his hand.

“I love you so terribly much!”

It was Marco’s voice, trembling, becoming more faint with every word.

“I love you so, so much, and you’ll never know, you’ll always think I would fancy a woman, but that is so wrong! I love you, and only you, and I don’t care whether Hell awaits me or Heaven, I just wished I could love you, as a man should love his lover.” Tears dropped down on Jean’s skin. He tried to open his eyes, but when his several attempts failed, he moaned out of frustration.

“J-Jean!” Marco jerked away from Jean’s bed in horror.

“M- _Marco…”_ Jean whispered in a hoarse voice as he finally could have a short glimpse on his petrified friend.

“J-Jean! Tha-that was nothing, Jean, sleep well, yes? Just fall asleep again…” Marco tried to pull the sheets over Jean’s chest but the blond threw it back again.

“N-no! Marco, no.” Jean began to wake up.

“J-Jean!” Marco cried loudly in panic, “You must sleep! You’re ill!”

“No.” Jean had grabbed Marco’s hand which had tried to shove him under the sheets again. Honey eyes fixated chocolate-brown ones which widened in shock.

“Jean – I can explain!” Marco started a desperate attempt.

“No, don’t do that,” Jean said with his raspy voice. He was thirsty, his mouth felt horribly dry and stale.

“But Jean–“ Marco tried to protest but Jean pulled him down, joining their lips in a kiss. It was quick, it was tender but tasted horribly because of Jean’s lack of liquid.

Marco, still extremely perplex, leaned above Jean, supported by his arms, and marvelled what just had happened.

“J-Jean?” The confusion was written in Marco’s face.

“Water – _please_ ,” the invalid whispered without waiting for Marco to maybe say something else. The taller man obeyed, pouring a cup full with water Jean instantly grabbed for and downed.

“Marco, is it – is it too much if I could have a bath?” Jean’s feeble voice grew stronger with every word, the freckled man nodded and rang the bell. Instantly, a servant appeared, and Marco ordered a bath for Jean. While the bath was made, Marco had sat down in an armchair some feet away from the invalid’s bed.

“Marco, I–”

“Why have you done that?” It was more a statement than a question. Jean couldn’t see Marco’s face from that angle.

“Why would I do that?” Jean retorted with a slight sarcastic tone.

“If somebody had just come inside!” Marco whispered in a sharp voice Jean wasn’t used to.

“I love you.”

“How horribly this could have gone wrong!” Marco cried in oblivion to the blond’s note.

“I love you! Marco, I love you!” Jean nearly yelled. This made Marco look up.

“No!”

“Yes!” A silent laughter escaped Jean’s throat.

“No! Jean, no!” The freckled one had jumped back on his feet, slowly approaching the four-poster, eyeing the blond suspiciously.

“Yes, Marco, yes!” Jean reached for Marco’s hand and it kissed it tenderly, “I love you – I love you so bad!” Marco’s face seemed desperate, as though everything didn’t go as aspired, so Jean peppered his hands with more kisses as encouragement.

The servant took his dear time but entered to soon because Jean still didn’t know how to convince Marco that this was _good_ , that this was everything he needed.

“I love you,” was muttered between hasty kisses on his side as the door opened again, and Marco froze in panic.

“He is still in a fever,” he whispered to the servant as he tried to heave Jean out of the warm bed, supporting him to the bathroom where Marco stripped the night gown out and helped him into the bathtub. It was in the middle of the night, a few candles were set up around them in the small room.

“I shall bathe him myself, go to bed, thank you,” Marco told the servant who then left them alone.

“Marco,” Jean gasped as the other man stripped off his coat and shoved his sleeves up.

“Just stay quiet now, yes?” Marco murmured as he grabbed the soap and wetted it. Tenderly, he tried to clean Jean’s sweaty body, moving in circles over sore skin. Soon enough, Jean held Marco close to his face, their lips slipping together automatically, Marco still trying to soap the back.

“We must not do this,” Marco murmured into the kiss as the piece of soap fell into the tub.

“I know.”

“We must not lay together.”

“I know.”

“We cannot marry.”

“I know.”

“No one must know.”

“I know, Marco, I know.”

“And you don’t care.”

“And I don’t care,” Jean whispered back as they broke the kiss with a smile.


	2. A Tender Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1.8k of filthy regency gay smut. Have fun, y'all, you definitely deserve it.

Marco could feel a pair of impatient hands tearing at his tie while he himself stripped out of his coat. Their kisses grew sloppier, Jean now nibbling at Marco’s lower lip, trying to coax some inappropriate noises out of his lover’s throat with a devilish smirk. Earlier that night, they had escaped the ball being held at their house. Since all their servants were occupied in the lower storeys, they didn’t have to fear their discovery. And until Mrs Kirschtein might have noticed, they would be back at the party.

Jean was now fiddling with the buttons of Marco’s waistcoat, teasingly licking his lips at the sight. Marco moaned breathlessly as he felt himself losing one of his shoes while getting shoved on the huge bed. Jean grinned mischievously, slipping outside his own shoes and tossing his coat away.

“Mr Bodt, what do I do?” Jean asked in his low, raspy voice while tailing his fingers up Marco’s thigh, “How dare a gentleman like you look so inappropriately handsome? Every woman must be after you, my son.” Jean bit into the freckled neck teasingly, feeling how Marco tensed up underneath him as he left his marks. “So shamelessly handsome, Mr Bodt, how dare you tempt such innocent creatures?”

Marco groaned, head falling back, as Jean began palming the bulge in Marco’s breeches.

“You should sit model for Adonis sometime,” the blond went on further, with one hand popping open the other’s waistcoat, with the other rubbing over the clothed length of the man underneath.

“You know I’d make a horrib– horrible statue,” Marco’s breath hitched as Jean began sucking at his sensitive skin, leaving red marks in his crook.

“I am going to draw you, pretty boy,” Jean muttered against the freckled chest, “I’ll draw you, you ridiculously handsome creature.”

Marco reached down to open Jean’s breeches which already showed a considerably large bulge. They slipped down slim legs to the knees, where Jean opened them quickly and got rid of them.

“Are you going to draw me like those pictures you have hidden in your desk?” Marco whispered into his lover’s ear before nibbling at his earlobe.

“Hm-maybe,” Jean breathed before catching the freckled man’s lips in a kiss, feeling a slight twitch in Marco’s breeches at the note. He unbuttoned the clothing separating his greedy hands from soft, heated skin, and slid them down as well.

“Didn’t stuff as usual?” he grinned against Marco’s lips as he slid his hands under the crumpled shirt.

“Hm? I never…never stuff,” Marco muttered, concentrating on the words before his mind went completely blank as Jean began stroking over his swollen cock.

“I can feel that,” Jean murmured, discarding Marco’s waistcoat in a quick movement, or as quick as it worked with the person getting undressed lying on the clothes, “Such a gifted boy… I just wondered if you were actually eager to see me tonight.”

“How could I n–not?” Marco’s pants became more frantic as Jean’s thumb flickered over the spot right below his cock’s head. His own hands pulled at Jean’s sleeves, at the collar, at anything in which he could dig his fingers in arousal.

“Ever got laid with a woman?” Jean suddenly asked, his raspy voice hiding a smirk as his lover shook his head shyly.

“N-no, why would I? I never – no one could love me that much…” An innocent blush spread on his freckled cheeks.

“Then I’ll show you something,” Jean grinned, kneeling above the brunet. He kissed the skin that was already exposed to the freckled chest, sucking at it to leave even more marks. A shame that it would be covered by a collar again.

Slender hands traced up Marco’s side, pushing the shirt farther up his heated body. Soon, Jean slipped under the shirt as well, peppering the skin with more kisses, tugging at Marco’s nipples with his teeth gently that it made the brunet’s cock twitch again. His dark eyes slipped close, he tried to mesmerise that moment for later, the feeling how Jean’s fingers lovingly caressed his hipbones, how Jean licked along his _cock_ –

Marco’s heart skipped a beat. The head was captured in the hot wetness that was Jean’s mouth, soft lips closing around him tenderly, tongue licking over the sensitive slit, swivelling in dizzying motions that Marco lost his mind. He felt his muscles tightening, and if it wasn’t for Jean’s firm hands on his hips, he would have bucked up to thrust into Jean because it just felt so good. One of Jean’s hands left the grip on his hips and he began stroking himself, and Marco couldn’t remember anything that made him so hot, made him feel so good. Jean’s lips were kissing down his shaft wetly, his tongue licking at his balls which sent shivers down Marco’s spine and made pre-come drip from the tip of his length. Jean wandered farther down, leaving Marco breathless as he began stroking him again. He was about to cry out but he willed himself not to make any noise, still afraid that someone might check what happened in this bedroom.

He tensed even more as Jean began licking at his puckering entrance, wetting it playfully with his tongue until he slowly poked inside.

“Loosen up,” Jean muttered breathlessly while spreading Marco’s legs farther. The latter nodded, but it was difficult while being so aroused, so tense to ‘loosen up.’

Eventually Jean had widened him enough to dive deeper with his tongue, and Marco actually thought it was pretty pervert, yet in a very pleasurable way if he was honest.

“Jean,” he whined as a dripping wet finger worked its way into his hole instead of Jean’s very talented tongue, “w-what are you doing?” It was a shy question, almost innocent if he wasn’t spread so wide and dripping from pleasure.

“You remember those drawings I have?”

Marco shortly flashed back to their previous conversation and nodded hesitantly.

“We’re going to do that – if you want to.”

Marco’s cheeks blushed furiously and he bit on his lower lip not to moan shamelessly into the darkness. Jean widened him further, the stinging sensation soon decreasing, and Jean breathed more heavily than before at the sight Marco offered in the dim candle-light.

Soon, a second finger was added, leaving Marco whimpering and at Jean’s mercy as the latter curled his digits buried deep inside his lover. Suddenly, there was a desperate cry bursting out of Marco’s throat, an internal explosion hitting him hard, and he wanted –

“More, Jean, _do that again_!”

And Jean did.

Marco’s hands tugged at the sheets, his cock twitching in arousal as Jean hit his special spot again, more, _he needed more…_

Jean leaned down towards him, sucking again at the freckled man’s nipples while scissoring his fingers and hitting _that spot_ , and Marco was sure he must have been dead and somewhere in Heaven. He arched up, tensing with every little thrust Jean made with his hand, and then Jean added a third finger and Marco felt so filled, so tightly stuffed, and he wanted Jean rubbing over _that special bundle of nerves again because it just felt so great –_

Jean pulled out, not without a cheeky peck on Marco’s jawline, but Marco pouted nonetheless. He felt oddly empty, his cock was throbbing because it just was so _hard_ , so very hard and he wanted to come but he also wanted to feel Jean inside him, be as close as possible, to feel him, to breathe him, to be one, in soul, in heart, in body.

Jean tossed away his shirt, laying bare his entire glory for Marco to see, and with a quick movement, he grabbed for something on the bedside table, a phial with glittering liquid inside. He smirked at the questioning look his lover gave him, and explained,

“It’s easier, I tested it before.”

“Y-you … you tested it?” Marco sounded disbelieving.

“Y-yes, I, uh… I don’t have enough spit for that,” he nodded down at his own swollen cock, “and I believe neither have you. So we go with oil.”

Marco nodded, still frowning slightly as he watched Jean slicking his dick with the gold-brown liquid, a few drops running down his legs, but it didn’t seem to bother him. With the rest of the oil on his hands he coated Marco’s hole, slipping one finger inside in a quick movement and rubbing briefly over his prostate again before he pulled out and lined up his throbbing cock to push inside.

Marco gasped. He was so, _so_ filled, and even Jean couldn’t suppress a sharp hiss at the feeling of the tight heat surrounding him. They breathed heavily, now more then ever. Gliding deeper until he was buried entirely inside Marco, Jean leaned down, supported by his arms, and caught his lover’s lips in a needy kiss. Before he could pull out again, Marco had wrapped his limbs around the body above him, his hot breath tickling Jean’s neck, and then _they moved_.

Marco shivered at the sensation, at how the ring of muscles closed around Jean’s length, how he was stretched so incredibly, how slick and smooth they glided against each other to find a steady pace. He wanted to hold Jean closer, even closer then they already were, heated skin pressing against his. He moaned Jean’s name breathless between his panting, and how he was _filled, how he wanted more, more –_

Jean quickened the pace, own gasps and pants of _Marco_ coming from his mouth, and he buried himself deeper, pushed more, until he heard a silent scream. _He had found it_.

Now he thrust into the special spot inside Marco that made him see stars, abused it that Marco was a whining mess because it felt so good, _so good._

The snapping sound of Jean’s hips slamming against Marco’s skin became incredibly loud, but none of them cared. It was them, it was love, it was something they both did need, and it was beautiful.

Jean’s thrusts became more and more frantic the closer he came to the peak , his breath irregular in Marco’s neck. But then one push into the right spot, and Marco was gone, falling into the white heat of his orgasm as he came between them, untouched, tightening around Jean’s thickness that made his heart skip a beat, with the blond’s name tumbling from his lust-swollen lips. Jean slipped back inside, but it was so tight, _so tight_ , and he came inside within seconds, letting Marco’s sweet hole milk him dry before he glided out and collapsed on the bed next to the freckled man.

They both needed a while until they came down again from their orgasm, their fingers entwined, and Jean had never felt this happy in his life.

“We should … go down and … meet the others,” Marco panted, but Jean turned to his side, cupping one freckled cheek in his hand, kissing him lovingly.

“I think the others can wait a bit more,” he smiled, kissing his way down Marco’s throat, “Mind a round two?”

Marco let slip a groan as positive answer and didn’t regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaahh!! Look at [this cute fanart](http://hanta96.tumblr.com/post/115518479651) Hanta96 made for this fic! Thank you so much again ♥

**Author's Note:**

> Well, thank you for reading! Kudos and comments as always very appreciated, also concrit or if you found any typos :)


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